


To Catch the Moon

by gettinyinggywithit



Series: Yearbook Pictures: Class 3-Z AUs [1]
Category: Gintama
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24502249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gettinyinggywithit/pseuds/gettinyinggywithit
Summary: There’s a new teacher at Ginpachi sensei’s school, and she looks familiar. — Gintsu, Class 3-z AUTagged mature for later chapters.
Relationships: Sakata Gintoki/Tsukuyo
Series: Yearbook Pictures: Class 3-Z AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1770337
Comments: 32
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter - still working on later chapters, but I've been sitting on this one basically finished for months. Wish me luck! This is my first multi-chapter fic, and it's a big challenge for me. I'm unsure what my upload schedule will be, so bear with me. 
> 
> Trying to start up a series of class 3-z AU stories, which will include other characters. Check the "Yearbook Pictures" series for more. 
> 
> Title from the Lo Moon song, "For Me, It's You." 
> 
> I know that the main character of the Tale of Genji is not actually named Genji - but this is was the easiest way to reference it. Forgive me.
> 
> Update: my apologies, someone on FFN pointed out that his name is Ginpachi, not Genpachi, like in my original. I'm not sure how I mixed it up, but it's fixed now!

The students buzz about the new teacher for days before Ginpachi sensei registers it. It’s a low hum between classes, mainly among the boys, grubby-fingered and blushing: “hottie,” “those jugs,” and “wish she were my teacher.” He rolls his eyes, stuffs another lollipop into his mouth, and opens a magazine.

Then Kagura, who usually sleeps in the back corner of his class, comes in one day laughing about something “ _Tsukki_ ” had said.

Ginpachi blinks, turns the page of his magazine.

Tae Shimura drops off her younger brother at Ginpachi’s door, taps him on the head, and wags a finger. “Stay away from that new teacher,” she says playfully. “We all know a sexy young teacher is not a good thing.”

Shinpachi blushes and stutters something in return.

Still Ginpachi sensei’s face doesn’t change. 

/

One Saturday afternoon, the teachers are required to come to the school to conference with their students’ parents. It’s already halfway through the semester, and the leaves are beginning to turn. The heat has suddenly rolled back, and the students march in with a flush on their cheeks from the bite of cold air. The school windows are cracked open now, letting in the sweetest, lushest breeze they’ll have all year. 

At half-past ten int he morning, Ginpachi wrestles Umibouzu out of his classroom door, shouting, “Baldy, Kagura is doing _fine_ , her grades are _fine_ , now get out!” He huffs as the old man starts down the hallway, dragging his daughter.

Next door, the new teacher opens her door to a parent as well. Suddenly they are shoulder to shoulder, and instinctively Ginpachi flicks his eyes over.

Tall, slim, with delicate brows and a serious mouth that he remembers very, very well. Her hair is shorter now, a cropped bob that kisses the nape of her neck and folds neatly behind her ear. But everything else is the same, those light eyes, framed by long, dark lashes; a ramrod straight back; even the cigarette poking between her lips. And there, before his eyes, a memory:

 _A summer day with the top buttons of her school uniform undone, a popsicle making a round o in her mouth. She plucked it from her lips with a pop!, and Ginpachi leaned forward, imperceptibly. Her eyes, serious and methodical even then, slid toward him, and she murmured,_ What are you looking at?

Now, in the hallway, a parent looks warily between them. 

She says, “Ginpachi—” 

He is already turning back to his desk. 

“Tsukuyo,” he tosses over his shoulder.

/

He stumbles into his classroom Monday morning, his hair wavier than usual. His tie is not done properly. The glasses keep slipping off his nose. His stomach churns, and even strawberry milk doesn’t help, so he picks up a pack of cigarettes at lunchtime instead. His students blink at him because they’ve never seen Ginpachi sensei like this before. The chalk slips from his hand for no reason. He calls people by the wrong names, three times in a row. 

“Sensei is in love,” someone whispers. 

Kagura fires back, frowning deeply. “Eh, eh, that idiot has never been in love in his life,” she scoffs. 

Sougo, to her right, murmurs, “Maybe he’s a masochist.”

Behind him, Sacchan grimaces. “No, absolutely not!” she cries. “I’m the only masochist in our relationship.”

To which Kagura again scoffs. “Sacchan, you idiot,” she says, “even if sensei were in a relationship, it definitely wouldn’t be with _you_.”

“Oh yeah?” she huffs, drawing her arms across her chest. “If not me, then who?”

Everyone is quiet.

“Who even wants that permed idiot anyway?” Toshi grumbles, and pulls a jar of mayo out of his desk. Someone else — probably Sougo — slaps it out of his hand, where it shatters in the middle of the floor. In an instant, everyone is screaming and yelling, papers are flying, desks get knocked over. 

Amidst the din, Kondo Isao asks no one in particular, “Do we really think that sensei has no love in his life?”

/

Ginpachi’s teen years were a blur of strawberry milk, reading _Jump_ behind textbooks, and the back of her head in class. She sat forward, taking notes in neat, tidy script, all in order like a rank-and-file. He wonders if her handwriting still looks like that, on the chalkboard. Would be very easy for her students to copy her notes. 

One day, they were the last to leave the classroom: Ginpachi, taking a makeup exam (he’d skipped school for the first one), and in front of him, Tsukuyo writing a homework assignment. He finished before her, stood, and passed by her desk on his way out the door. Glancing down at her page, he noticed that there was very little written down.

 _Are you having trouble?_ he asked. It came quickly, almost before he could stop it.

She lifted her face up to him, blinking, hesitating. _Yes actually._

Ginpachi set his book bag on the desk next to hers. _I thought you were a smart girl,_ he said, fingering an ear. _You always look so serious, working hard, taking notes._

 _Actually…_ she started, then paused, looking around. She still seemed to be deciding something. _Actually, I don’t understand the material at all_. Her eyes rolled up to him, and finally he caught a small blush starting on her cheeks. Behind her, the sun was setting, casting the whole classroom in a warm orange glow. He refused to notice.

She spluttered to explain. _You see, I copy every single thing so I can remember it and study later on_ , she said, hands fluttering, _but now I have this assignment, and I really don’t know what’s going on. I’m terrible with literature, I can’t get this Genji guy —_

The chair next to her scraped the floor as Ginpachi pulled it over. He sat down and placed a finger on her essay prompt. He didn’t even sigh.

_See, here’s what you need to do —_

/

She still failed the assignment. Turns out copying Ginpachi’s sentiments of, _Genji was the man, like Sun Goku or Naruto_ , did not count as “well-constructed argument.” She was given until the end of the semester to revise. The next week, she slammed her red, marked-up paper on his desk, nearly spilling his milk. 

_You’re going to help me rewrite this_ , she growled through her teeth, _or so help me God_ — 

He had never seen her face so twisted with emotion: red cheeks, eyebrows drawn tightly together, her eyes glinting in the light. He hadn’t noticed how light they were before; what color is that exactly—?

His lips moved on their own. _Okay, but don’t expect much._

That’s how they ended up staying together after class for the next several weeks. Ginpachi acted as a quotation machine, spotting and compiling lists of helpful quotes from the extremely long novel, while Tsukuyo refined her ideas. They sat, their desks pulled in close, unspeaking for nearly an hour each afternoon. The only sound was the scrape of their pencils, or if Ginpachi quietly unwrapped a piece of candy. 

At the end of the semester, the teacher returned her with a passing grade. In the frigid afternoon air, wrapped in a thick woolly scarf, she held out the re-graded paper to him, a big grin breaking upon her normally stoic face. She almost looked like the young girl she was supposed to be. 

_We did it!_

Ginpachi blinked and rubbed the back of his neck. _Nah, nah_ , he said, _you did it, I almost ruined it_.

 _You_ did _ruin it_ , she retorted, cocking an eyebrow. Then shrugged, tucking the paper carefully back into her bag. _How can I thank you?_ She asked, turning again toward him. Tsukuyo paused, and before Ginpachi could get away, she said: _I know, I’ll take you for ice cream, to show my gratitude_.

And the teenaged boy blinked again, this time turning red from chin to eyebrows; a little bit of drool was already appearing in the corner of his mouth. _A-are you sure?_ He actually stammered. 

Tsukuyo just kept her smile in place. _Let me guess: you like strawberries?_

/

In the next semester, he found his eyes seeking her out. In the mornings she walked in with her head bowed, sliding into her desk by the window. She still sat forward and straight as an arrow, listening and taking notes. She almost never smiled, but her mouth was pretty, small, shaped like a bow. The bun on top of her head sometimes blocked his view, as she was almost his height back then; yes, that must have been why he couldn’t see past her. No other reason.

 _I’m not going to buy you another parfait_ , she said, dead-pan, to his shadow standing behind her locker. 

A bit ruffled that she’d noticed him, Ginpachi slouched toward the door. _Pfft, I know,_ he grumbled. 

He did not leave. He stood in the doorway, facing the street with his hands in his pockets. He stared at his shoes, chewed his thoughts slowly. There was freezing rain outside: a perfect opportunity for teenage boys to walk under an umbrella with a pretty girl, but Tsukuyo was the only one available. He huffed and turned over his shoulder again: _Oy, oy_ —

But she was already out the door and several steps ahead, paying him no mind. 

_H-hey— you know I don’t have an umbrella, you rude little—_

He jogged a bit to catch up with her and ducked himself underneath her umbrella, flushing. _Hey, you—!_

There, beneath the roof, behind a light blonde fringe and a small hand, she was laughing.

/

In the teacher’s lounge, he catches her making tea. Oolong, in a small porcelain pot the color of peaches, the cup no bigger than the palm of her hand. There's no one else around. He draws up next to her and reaches into the fridge for his carton of strawberry milk. 

He’s not sure why he says it. “So you’re the new teacher.” 

Tsukuyo nods, doesn’t take her eyes off the tea leaves steeping in her pot. 

After a moment, “What do you teach?” 

“Science,” she answers quietly. “And you?”

“Japanese literature.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tsukuo’s too-serious mouth lift into a smile. “Are you teaching _Genji_?” 

/

He has strong memories of Tsukuyo in a school uniform: white blouse and navy skirt in summer, wool sweater and knee-high socks in winter. The red ascot tied so neatly. The lift of her skirt in the wind.

(Once, behind the gym at school, she’d pulled his tie out of its loop around his neck, slowly, deliberately, twisting it around her slim white fingers. He remembers the closeness of her body, the feeling of his back against the wall. He swore he felt the heat of a thigh against his own. _I dare you to stop me_ , her eyes said, locked on his face. He never, ever did.)

But still. Still, Ginpachi is not prepared to see her as a teacher. 

Everyday when he arrives at school, her classroom light is already on, and she’s already at her desk or writing something on the chalkboard. Most days, she wears a button-up blouse and a tight pencil skirt. Once in a while, she sports a long dress in a deep color, like auburn or plum. She looks like an autumn leaf, dancing across the floor of her classroom, skipping from one end of the chalkboard to the other. She looks up, glances through the window as he passes by, and her face both is and isn’t the face of that girl who’d backed him into a corner. He drops his books in the hallway outside her door, gets tangled up in his tie. 

Most days he makes a fool of himself in the lunchroom. Spots her across the cafeteria, where she is refilling her hot water canister for tea, holding a small bento she brought from home. She sits by the window most days, an open invitation to students to come ask her questions about class. He stands in line amongst his own kids, staring absently with an empty tray. Someone prompts him, “Sensei—” and he moves forward, like cattle. 

And he lingers at the end of the day, when before he used to race out of the building like it was on fire. He slowly erases the chalkboard, stacks books carefully on the shelves. His students watch warily, wondering why he is suddenly supervising them. Through the window, he sees her leave everyday about an hour after the bell rings, a stack of books and papers in hand, rifling through her bag for keys. He wonders how she doesn’t stumble out of her heels, carrying such a precarious bundle of items, but she never does. 

“...Sensei?” 

/

She notices. Of course. With her sharp, sharp eyes. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Shoulder to shoulder at the counter in the teacher’s lounge again, her hands around that small cup of tea. 

Ginpachi doesn’t answer, doesn’t breathe. He’s not sure what he thinks he’s been doing. 

“The students will talk,” she cautions. He glances her way, finally. Her lips are turned down, still far too serious.

He feels like he’s choking on the whiteness of the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even _he_ is white, from his hair to his jacket. She is the only colorful thing in the room, with her red blouse, orange teapot, golden hair. 

“Students always talk.” 

/

They meet for a drink. It’s actually her idea. She hasn’t had a sip since her student days, and for him right now his only drinking companion is the cute news anchor on Channel 4. She sits next to him at the small, quiet bar, pours him a drink first, then her own. 

“Am I going to need to go to a hospital tomorrow?” he asks, watching Tsukuyo taking her first shot. It goes down a little too easy for his comfort.

“Are you seeing someone?”

Ginpachi almost chokes on his sake. Some of it is definitely in his nose. He blinks down at her, but Tsukuyo is sipping slowly, her eyes closed. “No,” he murmurs.

She sets her cup down and faces him now. “Are you _trying_ to see someone?”

“Also no.”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you interested in seeing someone any time soon?”

He grimaces, takes a quick shot. “What’s with all the questions? Where are you going with this?”

She puts her cheek in her hand casually, looks almost bored. “Do you want to fuck me?”

He stares, waiting for the punchline that doesn’t come. She’s wearing a leather jacket and a turtleneck, tight, dark jeans. Very unlike the lady who teaches next to him at school. Still, she is gorgeous and the same but so different. That very serious mouth, those eyes pinned directly to his face. _For me, it’s you,_ she’d said, a thousand years and a thousand lifetimes ago. 

“Yes,” he breathes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot off the presses!! 
> 
> I changed the rating from Explicit to Mature because I think the sex in this story isn't that explicit... if you disagree, please let me know and I'll change it back.
> 
> Also warning for sex between underage characters. It’s not explicit, but it is there.

“Where?” he asks next.

In the dim light of the bar, Tsukuyo blinks slowly, and the orange glow of the lamps glitters in her lashes.

/

Where, where, where—? 

Where did it all start.

It was the rooftop of their school building.

A Tuesday afternoon, lunch. Was it spring? Ginpachi thinks he recalls the edges of her floaty uniform sleeves, maybe her pink knees at the hem of her skirt. They sat side by side, speaking quietly, feeling the sun on their faces. He teased: _Tsukki_. She retorted: _Idiot_. His right knee knocked against her left. It was the first time he touched her.

She glanced up from her bento; he knocked at her again but didn’t move his knee away this time. Their eyes met over the carton of his strawberry milk, and he put it down, not unwillingly. Neither of them said a word for a moment, until Tsukuyo pointed at his milk and asked, _Are you going to finish that?_

Then suddenly he was upon her, because he was a teenager and the thought of her lips on his strawberry milk carton was not repugnant when it would it would have been _murder_ for anyone else to ask. She paused to say, breathily, _It doesn’t even taste like strawberries_ , and he growled against her mouth and said, _Yes it_ does _, now shut up and let me_ — and she did, she did, she did.

/

There was an unspoken pact after that: tell no one. Neither of them questioned it.

Neither of them questioned it when, in the early mornings after that, he found her waiting just inside the school doors and they would wordlessly retreat into a discreet corner and palm each other over their clothes.

Neither of them questioned it when he sought her out after gym class, cheeks flushed and still a touch moist, then placed both hands on her face and kissed her panting mouth.

Still neither of them questioned it when they would stay a little late after school presumably to clean the classroom together, but instead turned out the lights and backed each other into walls.

Then the boys started lining up at her desk in front of his. Handing love letters over to her. _P-please_ — they started, but Tsukuyo, Tsukuyo who devoured his lips against the wall in the janitor’s closet, responded like a short-circuiting robot, turning all red and puffy, blurting out something idiotic like, _W-what are you saying?_ Her eyes darted helplessly his way but didn’t stay there.

Ginpachi watched, his face never changing.

/

 _Maybe you should’ve accepted that last one_ , he commented, arms crossed, leaning against the school gate.

Tsukuyo stood by him, making no move closer. Her face was passive, cool. Without looking at him, she said, _I don’t know what you’re talking about._

Ginpachi forced his tone to be light. He even picked his nose for good measure. _I mean, he is the student body president, I’m sure he would make a great first boyfriend._

The pompous jerk was tall, fair, dark-haired and bespectacled: just your basic glasses character. But he’d had the gall to announce to the entire class right at the lunchtime bell that he was passionately in love with Tsukuyo and would do anything to receive her affection in return. No manners, for all his good breeding. She flushed uncomfortably, but merely bowed and thanked him, claiming she was very flattered. Then she exited the room a bit too quickly, and the room erupted: three girls latched themselves onto the boy’s arm, claiming he could have them instead; random boys shouted taunts at the door where Tsukuyo had left; and someone else decided to overturn a desk and begin reciting “Invictus.” No one had glanced at Ginpachi, or noticed him stand and leave after her.

 _Mmm,_ she hummed, as if his words were finally sinking in. Still she did not look at him, but a small smile was beginning to pull at her lips. _Unfortunately, I have no interest in student body presidents._

Ginpachi didn’t know what to say to that. He cleared his throat; the blood was pounding in his ears. _Then what are you interested in?_

After a moment of silence, he raised his eyes in her direction; she was already gone.

/

At the end of the day, in front of all their classmates, Ginpachi reached around and slammed his book bag on her desk. The room went silent; all eyes were on them. He stood and slouched toward her.

 _Walk you home?_ He asked, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Someone on the other side of the room audibly gasped.

She looked up, her eyes unreadable, but her eyebrows raised a bit. He felt his ears turn absurdly pink; she definitely saw it. After all the things they’d done together, why was he embarrassed _now_? He wanted to march away in frustration, say forget it! Then Tsukuyo blinked and smiled.

_S_ _ure._

Everyone in the room turned to stone. He heard someone whisper, _Tsukuyo-san turned down the student body president for… Ginpachi?_ Someone else laughed, _Maybe he’s blackmailing her._ Still another person shushed them, _That’s mean!_ And that same idiot Sakamoto only laughed: _I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul!_ Next to him, Shinsuke blurted, _What are you saying? Shut up._

Serenely, Tsukuyo stood, gathered her things, and swept out of the room. Ginpachi followed. Their classmates moved out of their way like water moving around the smoothest polished stone.

Outside, Ginpachi kept a respectful distance between them as they strolled down the street, making sure not to offer to carry her bag. She seemed content enough, a knowing smile pulling at her lips, her gaze still quite far away.

But when they rounded the corner of her street, Ginpachi saw a woman in a chair in front of their apartments on the first floor, practicing embroidery. Tsukuyo smiled broadly, running forward to bow to her in greeting. Ginpachi jogged to catch up.

 _Ginpachi, this is my neighbor, Hinowa-san,_ Tsukuyo introduced. It surprised him to see such a sunny grin take her features, but it was a welcome change. He glanced down at the woman in the wheelchair.

 _Pleased to meet you, young man_ , Hinowa greeted, in a voice light and smooth as honey. She had a small, delicate face, dark hair pulled into a topknot with a ribbon, and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

 _—Ginpachi is my classmate_ , Tsukuyo was explaining, but Hinowa was giggling behind her hand, and Tsukuyo continued to stammer and flush: _H-he is!_

 _I’m sure he is, Tsu-kki_ , Hinowa teased, waving her hand and speaking just above a whisper so that the whole neighborhood could hear. There was something playful in her voice, like a pushy auntie. Now she turned to him conspiratorially. _Would you two like to come over for some tea? I have been in a baking mood today and now have too much for just me!_

That got Ginpachi’s attention. _What did you bake?_ he asked eagerly, already taking the handles of her wheelchair and starting in the direction she pointed.

Hinowa glanced over her shoulder at him, a gleam in her eye. _Do you like strawberries?_

And just like that: Hinowa won him over. She laughed at his mumbling and plied him with strawberry shortcake, till even Ginpachi had to cry uncle and retreat from the table. _Please come back anytime_ , she told him, her smile wide enough to lift the corners of her eyes; but somehow he felt that she was really speaking to Tsukuyo, who sat by quietly, her face returned to that deep blush.

/

After, outside Hinowa’s apartment, he and Tsukuyo stood and hesitated.

He took a step toward the gates. _You two are close,_ he said, mostly for something to say.

Tsukuyo took the bait and walked with him. _Yes, we are. She’s been looking after me since I came to the city._

 _You came to the city alone?_ Somehow this news was not surprising to him; she didn’t have the bright eyes, the full cheek, of a child grown up in the bosom of a warm hearth. He’d seen that look before, more times than he cared to admit — even in his own reflection.

A beat. Tsukuyo chewed her lip absently, seemed to turn over in her head how much she wanted to tell. Then she looked at him and said, _Yes. My mother died, and my father couldn’t raise a young girl. So he sent me here for school._

Ginpachi rubbed his belly thoughtfully. _A woman like Hinowa could easily get married_ , he commented, changing the subject. He wasn't sure how far he wanted to pursue Tsukuyo's family history. _Who doesn’t want a beautiful, talented baker at home?_

It was the wrong subject to switch to. There was a long silence. They both came to a stop at the gates.

Tsukuyo turned her face away, as though waiting for something to appear at the end of the street. _She… she was married, before. Her husband was…_ she trailed off, before finishing quietly: _unkind._

Ginpachi blinked, literally unable to imagine someone being unkind to so gentle a creature. _Children?_

Now Tsukuyo’s face closed entirely. _I’m not sure,_ she said, hurriedly, before inclining a bow and shuffling away.

/

 _You’ve been coming home later than usual_ , Zura noted absently, flipping through his notes. He was sitting at the coffee table, not his usual study site.

Ginpachi shrugged off his school bag just inside the door, facing away from his roommate.

 _You’re also not eating lunch with me anymore_ , Zura added.

Still, there was no accusation in his tone, so Ginpachi didn’t answer a second time.

 _Are you coming to Shouyo sensei’s class tomorrow afternoon?_ Zura inquired now.

Three days a week, Ginpachi was supposed to attend kendo club after school. That is, he was signed up, and the others looked for him three days a week, but most days he was asleep under a tree in the schoolyard, a magazine over his face. Shouyo sensei himself dragged him to the gym by the collar with a cartoonish grin. But these days, they didn’t find him at his usual haunts.

Ginpachi sighed. _I think so._

 _You have a prior commitment?_ Now there was definitely an accusation. Zura always used elevated speech when he was irritated.

 _What do you want to say to me, Zura, out with it,_ Ginpachi grumbled.

 _It’s not Zura, it’s Katsura,_ the other boy returned, barely looking up from his page. _I want to know why you’re ditching us._

_I’m not ditching anybody._

_Shinsuke wants to know too._

_I don’t care what that midget wants._

_Do you care what Shouyo sensei said?_

At that, Ginpachi stopped. Another sigh. _What?_

Finally, Zura looked up, directly at his old friend. His green eyes were soft and wise, ironic for such an idiot. There was no telling what he actually saw. _Sensei says you’re in love._

For a moment, the two boys just stared across the room at each other, each sizing up the other.

Ginpachi finally said, _You know how sensei likes to tease._

Zura nodded. _I do._

Another moment: neither boy spoke.

Ginpachi started to move away, but Zura said, quietly: _Is it Tsukuyo-dono?_

He barked a laugh. _Her? Every other guy in the school is in love with her. What chance would I have?_ Then he shut the door behind him, loudly.

/

Ginpachi continued to walk Tsukuyo home after school, and after a while, the trickle of boys lining up at her desk with love letters finally slowed. It never came to a full stop, because rumors still abounded that Ginpachi was using some underhanded tricks to bully Tsukuyo into spending time with him. Occasionally a valiant spirit would plant himself at her side and declare that he would rescue the beauty from the beast. She always thanked them but waved them away. They laughed about these theories together on their walks home, and watching her face, Ginpachi couldn’t find the embarrassment to put a stop to it.

They brought about a new normal. At school, they snatched moments away from curious eyes and ears, hands finding slivers of skin and lips finding their match; afterwards, they walked to her apartment and spent afternoons with Hinowa, eating her desserts and chatting in the sunlight. She spoke of her dream of opening a bakery, of learning how to make fine pastries like those in big cities and abroad. Ginpachi volunteered to be her taste tester at the bakery. Once, quietly, with a flush on her cheeks, Tsukuyo admitted she wanted to be a scientist.

 _A scientist, really?_ Hinowa gasped in delight. _Why, you’ve never told me that, Tsukuyo-chan!_

Ginpachi glanced at her, imagining her in oversized glasses, hair in a topknot, a long white lab coat. It was a foreign image, but very pleasant. _What kind?_

She set down her cup of tea on her knees. _I’d like to study lunar science._

Hinowa took the words off his lips: _Oh, how poetic! Tsukuyo, the moon scientist!_

She nodded. _The discipline is called selenography, and it’s mainly interested in imaging the craters and such. But_ , she said a bit dreamily, _I’d like to know where the moon came from. How it impacts life on earth. That kind of thing._

 _That kind of thing_ , he echoed, watching her face.

Hinowa turned to him. _What about you, Gin-chan? What do you think you’d like to do?_

He blinked slowly. Truthfully, he’d never thought deeply about it. Ginpachi felt lucky to be alive at that moment, considering all the bumps and bruises Shouyo sensei has given him in practice over the years. His hesitation must have been too long; Hinowa shifted a bit. Tsukuyo only smiled and said, _I think you should think about literature, Ginpachi._

He snorted, nearly spilling his tea. _What? Literature? You saw what I did to your Genji_ paper.

Hinowa looked at her in question, but she waved her away. _Yeah, but I’ve also seen your recent work, and I know literature is the only class you actually do the homework for._ Tsukuyo’s smile only widened at his surprise. Then she shrugged. _Think about it._

/

Spring unfolded, pink and perfumed. Like a romantic movie, or a shoujo. Ginpachi actually thought he saw shoujo bubbles around her face. He rubbed his eyes nearly raw. He racked his brains for cool things to do or say and came up short. Was he supposed to say something? Was he supposed to ask her for something? To be his _— his —_ but Tsukuyo was beyond asking for things, or even giving things; she was entirely self-sufficient, providing all things for herself. When she smiled, or laughed, or kissed him, it was because it pleased her, and not because he asked. Ginpachi stood, dumbfounded and intensely grateful, when a blossom drifted from a nearby tree and landed in her fringe. Something had changed in her, in him, and although he couldn’t name it, Ginpachi knew it was because they were together.

/

He’s never told her, but Tsukuyo was his first.

It happened without planning, like everything else between them, one day after school in her flat where she lived alone. He found himself like many days prior, walking her home, untouching and unspeaking, a couple paces apart. His hands fisted in his pockets. He felt tight somewhere in his chest, so tense he almost vibrated with the effort to keep himself in one piece.

But at the gates to her building, she turned to him, a question in her eyes; this time he stepped inside, went up the stairs, and followed her into her flat. Inside, they both paused for a moment; she reached over and flicked on a light. The place was small and spare, basic beige furniture and few photos. But there were bits and pieces of her scattered around: biographies of famous scientists, a small novelty NASA rocket on a nearby shelf, maps of the cosmos, pots of night blooming flowers scattered around almost randomly. He spied a small teapot on the counter: peach orange.

Then Tsukuyo took her school shoes off, breaking his concentration, and he glanced down at the bend of a small elegant foot; and it did something to him that he could not name, to see her here in her home which no one else shared with her, and he thought, _how strange, that no one else should see you, you are —_

 _I have strawberry milk,_ she said, interrupting his thoughts, moving toward the refrigerator.

He followed, that tight feeling growing in his chest, still unspeaking. She pulled out his preferred brand, the one he always drank at school, and poured him a glass.

 _Please, help yourself_. She handed it to him a bit stiffly.

He took it from her but immediately replaced it on the counter. _You bought strawberry milk for me_ , he finally said. He took a step toward Tsukuyo.

 _Of course I did,_ Tsukuyo answered, the color coming into her face, _I mean, that’s what you like, so —_ but Ginpachi did not give her time to finish her sentence. Something switched on in him, and he turned and pushed her up against the refrigerator, and she squirmed against him, her lips against his. There was so much skin. His fingers grazed midriff.

 _Where_ , he ground out, and she answered, _This way_.

And then, he was pressed against her body in her bed, his waist between her knees. Ginpachi paused, took a moment to breathe. He’d never been here before, not even close, not even when he’d kissed her behind her ear under the tree in the schoolyard, and he’d felt her entire body go hot, and she’d shivered, and he’d thought _holy fucking shit_.

 _Gin — Ginpachi_ , he heard her say, in a voice so warm it felt like a kiss to his ear.

He pulled away and looked down at her sprawled out on the bed. Tsukuyo’s face had that fruity pink in it that made him think of dessert, but her eyes were wide, dark, so heavy. She gripped the sleeves of his jacket, rapidly sliding off his shoulders. That tie in her uniform was loose; he eyed it as she said slowly, _I’ve never done this before._

Ginpachi’s hands fisted in the sheets around her shoulders; he thought he would finally come apart if he tried to speak. He made the effort. _Do you not want to?_ He started to pull away, but her hands remained firm. _We don’t have to_ , he said quietly.

After a beat, Tsukuyo squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. _I — I want you_ , she declared boldly.

Her words rang in the air, clear and unmistakable. She held his gaze, and it was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to him in his young years. Ginpachi forced himself to smile coolly and poke her forehead with an index finger.

 _So serious, Tsu-kki, you need to stop frowning_ — but she was having none of that, so she pulled him down into her mouth and searched his hot, hungry body with her hands.

/

He didn’t leave for a long time.

The afternoon wore on, as he kissed her, and she kissed him back, sometimes slowly and tenderly, sometimes with a ferocity that surprised both of them. One or both would doze off, then wake the other a few minutes later with gentle fingertips. The sun ripened behind the curtains, cast orange over his shoulders, her thighs. They laughed sometimes, other times they felt so tight and hot that they couldn’t speak.

Tsukuyo tried to pull the sheets over herself, but Ginpachi gently pulled it away, his eyes on hers. She flushed and looked away. He ran his hands over and over, and gradually he began to find them.

Bruises.

A few cuts.

Small, localized to her hands and upper arms. A couple on her belly and back. A yellow bruise on her knee, healing. Ginpachi strained his eyes in the dim light, searching, searching, but not speaking. How had he not seen this one, on the crest of a silver cheekbone?

He felt a slow, dawning anger that left him feeling like every atom of himself might spread to every corner of the earth, seeking answers, seeking the hand that would raise itself to her. He calmed himself, piece by piece, counting her breaths as he touched her. When had it become like this? When did the thought that someone might hurt her begin to frighten him?

 _Tsukuyo_ , he murmured, and she breathed against the crown of his head, _Hm?_

He closed his eyes, waited to hear himself ask the questions. Who? What? How—? Nothing.

Instead, Ginpachi pressed a kiss to his thumb and touched it to her sternum, between her soft white breasts. It was as close to a promise as he thought he could make.

/

When he returned to his apartment, Zura took one look at his face and said, _Looks like you had a chance._ Genpachi went straight to his bedroom without a word.

/

_Where?_

He’s about to ask again when she answers.

“This way.”

They go to his place, nearby. He wonders if that’s why they came to this bar, unconsciously. Who had chosen it? Now Ginpachi can’t remember.

She pushes him against the door just inside his apartment. Her mouth against his neck is hot, moist. Her hands are on his tie, already loosening; he feels sloppy, incredible, like he might burst from the confines of his skin. When Tsukuyo pulls away to grab at his belt, he stops her, trying to gulp some air into his burning lungs. Ginpachi’s eyes wildly search her face — he still sees fruit in that warm, ripe cheek, those candy-sweet lips. But she turns away and pulls him down the hall.

His bedroom is a sad mess of laundry and snack wrappers; she _hmphs_ in recognition but otherwise doesn’t comment. He still hasn’t moved to take off his jacket, tie. Tsukuyo turns back and holds his eyes with hers as she peels off her top and trousers. She steps out of the pool of clothes gracefully, and he knows his mouth is hanging open but he can’t stop it. It’s like a dream he had as a kid: a grown Tsukuyo, the woman that the young girl had only hinted at. Her neck is so long, her hands so slim; her waist is a crescent moon, and her hips are high tide. Her pouting mouth is an apricot dipped in honey. Her eyes are no longer spring flowers, but deep wells.

She perches on the edge of the bed and waits. When he doesn’t move, a small smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. “We don’t have to do this.”

The heat explodes in his face; he scrambles like a fool out of his clothes, nearly tripping over himself to cross the room. His jacket goes flying and nearly knocks over a lamp. Neither of them flinch. He kneels before her and reaches for her hands.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, though he doesn’t know why. In truth, it’s been more than a little while since he had a woman, and it’s been — how many years? — since he touched Tsukuyo.

He goes for her mouth, but she stops him with a finger. “No kissing,” she says quietly, her eyes looking away.

She pulls him on top of her with an elbow hooked around his neck. They don’t speak — they just crash together, hands everywhere, quick intakes of breath, her hair spread out against his pillow. He smells spicy autumn leaves, tastes the memory of her on his tongue. He sees red lips, purple bags beneath her eyes, the blue veins in her wrists. It’s like before, but without the tenderness, the tentative touches and little tests, the questions, the mistakes, the making up for mistakes.

Her nails dig into his shoulder, which makes him wince and teeth a little too hard at her nipple. She cries out — he decides he likes the sound.

Then he quickly grabs her by the ankle and slides her completely horizontal on the bed, bending his torso in a brutal arc over hers. The quick move leaves her breathless, and for a moment Ginpachi glimpses her behind the veil: a perfect o of surprise, her eyes wide, cheeks flushed and a bit moist. A well opens at the quick of him; he sees an orange moon on dark waters.

She recovers quickly, throws her arms over him again and pulls his hips to hers. Her hand on him is scorching. It draws a deep hum from his throat, familiar and tingling. She tightens around him and slams against his body; she breathes against his jaw, " _yes_ ," a wet strand of hair sticking to her cheek. He grips around her back with one arm, clasping her tight against his chest, while the other holds her full hip hard enough to leave marks she will see in the morning.

He wants to make it last, but he feels himself spinning out of control. He grips the headboard of the bed to get a better angle, the veins sticking out in his arm. She’s got her hands in his hair, cradling the back of his skull. He can get no relief from the onslaught on his senses; she’s just so full and wide, taking up all his horizon. Ginpachi pounds again and again into that tight white heat, so hard that he’s not sure if the sounds she makes are of pain or pleasure. She’s murmuring nonsense into his neck, and he lets go of the headboard to jerk her face up to his, he _needs_ to see her face, so he begs, " _Look at me, please, look at me, Tsukuyo —_ "and then she twists and becomes taut as an arrow against him, eyes blown so wide he thinks of a starless sky.

Ginpachi follows her with a deep exhale into her cheek, pressed firmly against his. His arm shakes from the force of his grip on her. When he finally pries his hands from her back, his palms are angry-red, matching her skin.

He allows himself to collapse heavily onto her, panting, seeking out her hair with his fingers. He never takes his off her. Tsukuyo looks decadent, red-faced, eyes glossy and lips puffed. Her hair is a mess. Her breathing is still labored. Her body is covered in a fine layer of sweat, his and hers; she shines silver in the dim light. Even if she never lets him touch her again, he thinks he will die with that image.

Her eyes meet his. There is a beat, where he thinks he will say something dangerous, something about lost years and _I missed you_ — but the distance is already reknitting itself.

Tsukuyo sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed, starts looking for her clothes. She heads straight for the bathroom. He hears the water turn on, and after a few minutes she returns, dressed again. The juicy red of her lips is gone; they are once again serious and respectable. Her hair is neatly tucked behind her ear.

In the doorway, Tsukuyo stops and looks at him. Ginpachi still hasn’t moved from his place in the bed.

Her eyes hold his, a gentle embrace. She offers a smile. “Good night,” she says quietly, then turns toward the door and leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn. Brace yourselves. Hopefully it will answer some questions you guys had from the last chapter. Or not?? 
> 
> Also, someone commented that the italics used for dialogue are strange. I understand the feeling, but my purpose in using it is to draw a clear distinction between past and present events, since they criss cross so much in this story. The only other way to tell is a change in verb tense. So I hope you'll bear with it.

They have the same old pact: tell no one. Again, neither teacher questions it, or addresses it.

At school on Monday, when he passes by her door he catches her bent over picking up something she's dropped; he lingers a little too long in the window before he can tear himself away. During his classes, Ginpachi catches snippets of the students' talk on the teacher next door, whose "mysterious eyes" and "sexy bod" still gather attention from the boys _and_ the girls. They wonder if she's a foreigner. They wonder if she has a boyfriend. Ginpachi sensei calls the boy who asked that question to the front to recite a passage and takes some small pleasure in watching him squirm.

For a few weeks, she doesn't come close or even acknowledge him, except for a brief nod in the teacher's lounge. Then, when November draws in its chill breath, preparing to blow snow into their faces, she shows up at his place. In the doorway she is wreathed in light, heaving in a bag of groceries. From his place on the couch, Ginpachi shoots to his feet, watches her beeline for the kitchen counter. She sets down her bag, in which he spies rice, green vegetables, and some meat. He swallows hard, watches her for a moment. She hardly makes a sound, moving around in the poorly lit space, looking for a chopping board, knife, and hot pot. He finds the objects and places them before her, wordlessly. She hands him a few things to chop, and they settle into silence.

It's fragile, tentative, neither of them glance at the other. Ginpachi puts all his focus into making neat, even chops, willing his heart to stop hammering. _Fucking asshole,_ he calls himself. _You stupid prick, you absolute nut. What do you think you're_ doing _?_ He doesn't know.

They sit down for beef hotpot at his kitchen island. Still hardly a word has passed between them, and the air is stretched too thin in the room. Then Tsukuyo pulls a bottle of honey-colored whiskey from her bag, sets it on the counter with a thump, and pours two glasses. Her eyes stay on him the entire time. He asks himself again: _What do you think you're doing?_

It's not long before they're both hiccuping and eyeing each other openly. A smile peels its way across her face, high color on her cheeks. She's so warm she's practically glowing. Ginpachi's head swims.

"I missed the red beans," he suddenly blurts.

The air in the room sucks completely away. The color drains from his face as he realizes what he's said.

Tsukuyo stares at him from under her lashes, looking like a roused tiger. Her arm whips up and she slams the cleaver down on the counter — when had she reached for it? — and half-growls, half-drawls: " _What?_ "

Ginpachi stutters, hands coming up in surrender. "I — I, uh —"

And suddenly she's upon him, launched herself across the close space and tackled him to the floor of his kitchen. She's hot and fast against him, scratching at his sweatshirt and scalp, peppering his face and neck with her moist mouth. Ginpachi groans; the cord tying his self-control down snaps, and he's instantly hard. He grabs fistfulls of her hips and ass, grinds up against her, and she mewls.

"How _dare_ you," she grumbles against his Adam's apple, "I made _dinner_ for you."

"I'm not sorry," he snaps against her ear.

She all but drags him to his bedroom.

It sets a tone.

She comes to his apartment three days a week and makes a simple dinner. They argue about the lack of sugar in his food. She forces a few broccoli florets down his gullet, but in exchange he gets to put as much red bean as he wants on his rice. He touches her up while she cooks and earns himself a slap to the ear that leaves him dizzy. After dinner they fuck, hard, either on the living room floor or in his bed; after that she goes to his shower and he follows, slides down and licks between her legs before she can protest; they fuck in the shower; they fuck again after the shower, this time slow and quiet, taking extra time; and she hurries to get her things and out of his door before he can pull her to the floor again.

Tsukuyo never sleeps over. She never leaves her things at his apartment. She doesn't even announce her comings and goings; if one night she doesn't make it, Ginpachi doesn't contact her and he doesn't ask why.

He doesn't try to kiss her.

/

They start to appear together at school. During the fall semester events, Kagura and Sougo catch Ginpachi sensei sitting next to Tsukuyo with the other faculty, though their names are not in alphabetical order. Shinpachi reports that he comes to Tsukuyo's desk to eat lunch with her. Hasegawa spotted them in the teacher's lounge together, speaking quietly. The boys grumble about the hot new teacher being swindled by their dull-eyed sensei.

Kagura picks her nose and looks disinterested. "It won't last. Tsukki's out of his league."

The students make bets on their relationship. Half of them bet that Ginpachi sensei fucks it up before the end of the semester; another few students bet that Tsukuyo is afraid of commitment and ends it herself, that's why she's still single. A couple vindictive girls suggest that Tsukuyo is secretly married to someone else, that Ginpachi can never have her anyway. The theories get more and more outlandish: some swear that they saw Ginpachi with another woman, that he's actually dating other teachers _and_ students! Sacchan alone asserts that Ginpachi will grow tired of Tsukuyo.

"Does no one think they will fall in love?" Kondo, an eternal optimist and romantic, asks. He eyes Tae Shimura across the room but does not name his hopes. Sympathetically, Toshi pats him on the back and shakes his head, murmuring something about "not our business."

"Die, Hijikata-sempai," Sougo returns, boredly, studying his nails.

/

But for all that, his landlady, Otose, is the one who makes the first comment directly to him. She's sweeping the gates of their building when he arrives home one evening, alone. She looks at him blandly and says, "Ginpachi, we should talk about your friend."

He turns over his shoulder, lollipop in his mouth. "What," he garbles around the candy.

"The woman," Otose says bluntly, plucking a cigarette from her sleeve. She lowers her voice; it mellows, becomes very soft and kind. "I don't really care who you sleep with, Ginpachi, but I do care about who you fall in love with."

Ginpachi's face doesn't change. She goes on, gently, "You've never told me, but I have a feeling." Otose flicks the lighter on and she leans into the fire. "It's the same girl, right?"

He doesn't take the lollipop out of his mouth when he says, "She is, but she isn't." Then he shuffles away before she can ask more questions.

/

Ginpachi may be powerless against Tsukuyo, but he's no fool. He watches her closely in the following days and weeks, though he's not sure what he's watching for. He thinks of Otose's careful face. They hadn't run into each other so far, he supposes, but Otose has always been prescient in a way that mothers and grandmothers are. It's frightening how much she can guess just from the distance in his eyes, the tension in his hands. He considers that when Tsukuyo is her age, she will have the same effect on people.

In bed, presses his face into the dip of her hips and she shivers, saying his name with that small wet voice. _What are you not telling me?_ He wants to ask, over and over. But instead he touches the marks on her body.

Her knees have the pebbly look of someone who's fallen many times. Her arms, especially the wrist and triceps, show criss-cross patterns, half-moons where nails, even knives, might have intruded. There's a frightening divot in her temple; what possibly could have happened there? On her back, there's a long scar stretching from her right kidney up to her lower right rib cage. She shudders — pleasure, or the memory of pain? — when he runs his hands gently along the edge.

"Tsukuyo." Her name is a question.

"Ginpachi." His name is a warning.

Instead of continuing, he just presses his hand against the side of her face. He leans down and kisses just beneath her eye, so softly he thinks she will protest its intimacy. But she doesn't.

**/**

In the late spring of that year so long ago, a man appeared. Ginpachi will never forget it, the day he first noticed a man at the edges of his vision. This man was dark, and dressed darker: somehow he was a shadow all to himself. He wasn't there all the time, he didn't think; just during the school day, or on his walks home with Tsukuyo. A hundred feet behind and on the other side of the street, the man strolled with headphones in his ears, hands in his pockets, his eyes hidden by fringe. At times, when Ginpachi spoke with Tsukuyo, he would glance over his shoulder, and the man would be gone, vanished as though just his imagination.

But there's no way he could've conjured the way a smile spread slowly over his lips, the way his body was angled toward them. It made his flesh crawl, his teeth chatter.

At night he dreamt of this man approaching, slowly, from across the street but never actually coming near — forever and ever, the space between him and Tsukuyo and this stranger never closing and never widening, but the slick intent in his steps promising. He felt like they were prey, just outside the circle of a predator's range.

/

Around that time, Tsukuyo picked up her smoking habit. He remembers it precisely, can almost point to the calendar day. She'd huddled just around the corner from the school gates one morning, puffing away. He noticed her right immediately, leaned around the brick and peered closely.

 _What?_ she said irritably, inhaling a drag.

_New hobby?_

Her light eyes moved toward him, weighing his tone. She must not have sensed judgment, because her shoulders visibly relaxed. _I guess so._

In the weeks and months that followed, he watched Tsukuyo smoke how many packs of cigarettes? Sometimes she smoked between classes, on the roof; she even smoked after sex like a French actress. She did it lazily, a cat unfurling itself in the sun. Her eyes glazed over a bit, and she blew smoke over her shoulder. His eyes stayed glued to her mouth. When he kissed her, she looked sheepish, like he might taste ash on her lips, but he smelled it more than tasted it. Shrugged. Couldn't complain, she was still a bombshell.

 _Who bought you those?_ he asked once.

But then he could see the tops of her ears turn pink. _No one,_ she mumbled, turning away.

/

Even now, Tsukuyo smokes after sex. She stands on the balcony in his sweats and her bra, leaning over the city and blowing smoke toward the moon. He watches from the bed. She catches his eye and a half-smile pulls at her lips.

"Old habits and all," she says, by way of apology.

He shrugs again; truthfully he finds it more distasteful than he used to, but only because it reminds him of that shadow on the street, and the day it finally approached them.

/

A sweltering day, herald of the summer vacation. He continuously patted his forehead with a handkerchief, indoors and out, while she looked entirely unruffled by the heat. Ginpachi hated summer; it reduced his already low motivation to nil, made him want to sleep and eat strawberries all day. As classes picked up momentum for the final exams, he gargled strawberry milk behind his textbook and pretended not to hear his teachers call his name.

Ahead of him, Tsukuyo too was drifting. Her normally focused gaze was out the window on the horizon, no, perhaps much, much further away. He couldn't guess, suddenly, where her mind was when she wasn't with him. He once fancied that she thought about the moon and stars, that she curled up late at night with science journals in her bed. But in the weeks leading to exams, she seemed not to take much notice of any of her classes. Her hands lay limply across her notebooks, unwriting.

Ginpachi knew better than to ask outright if something was wrong. Tsukuyo had a forbidding gaze that she levelled on him once in a while, a KEEP OUT sign. There were places he was not meant to follow, and for the most part, he forgave her that. Everyone has their thing.

She was smoking more, though. A pack a day, almost, much too much for a young girl. One day he finally reached out and placed his hand heavily over hers, holding a lighter at lunchtime. She glanced up, pulled out of her daze. Ginpachi fixed her with a stare. Tsukuyo nodded and put the items away.

 _It feels like you're not with us these days,_ he finally murmured, turning away from her. He stared at the soccer field below them, watched their classmates run and squeal with pleasure.

Tsukuyo smiled a bit ruefully. _Who is us, exactly?_ She turned and tweaked his elbow a bit weakly, but he looked at her again, and she looked away. He waited, but she was doing that thing again, staring far, far away with her lunch untouched on her lap. Tentatively, Ginpachi reached over and snatched an onigiri from her. She didn't notice.

She still didn't take much notice of him the rest of the day, moving through the halls and to her desk like a ghost. After, he moved over to walk her home, but he had to nudge her out of her seat.

Once they hit the street, she immediately lit up a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, visibly relaxing. A small smile lifted her lips. Ginpachi watched her, baffled. The heat was so thick that the city melted around them, like it was moving and not them; he felt like they were stepping through deep water. How could she possibly inhale fire at a time like this, without a single bead of sweat? And look relieved, no less?

A couple blocks from her apartment, the shadow moved. Ginpachi had all but forgotten him, he was so absorbed in Tsukuyo's face, but he felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise, and when he turned over his shoulder, the stranger was standing directly over them, that same smile on his face.

/

 _Tsukuyo_ , he said, in a voice deep as a volcano's song. It rumbled from deep within his chest. He looked at Tsukuyo like he knew her in ways that Ginpachi could only guess.

With the sharpest alarm, Ginpachi snapped his head toward her face, simultaneously stepping between her and the stranger. His arm reached out across her body.

 _Who are you?_ His voice was throaty.

But before the stranger could answer, he felt Tsukuyo's small hand on his arm, pushing it away gently. _Don't worry_ , she said, her eyes low. _This is my boss._

/

The encounter was not long. Tsukuyo stepped out of the shield of his body and walked a block away with the stranger. They stood close together, but not close enough to touch. The man leaned over her in a way that spoke of his immense, and absolute, power. Ginpachi waited, never taking his eyes off them, off Tsukuyo's face. They spoke quietly, so no one around could hear. Made a couple of unfamiliar gestures. Then they separated, the man going one direction without a backward glance, and she the same. Tsukuyo returned to him with her face carefully composed, then reached for his hand.

In her apartment that afternoon, she did not smoke once, but kissed him softly, over and over, and he held her against him on her couch like he thought she might float away. He silently pressed his questions to her ear, her neck, her collarbone, to every finger on her hand and to the pulse in the crook of her elbow. She only held his skull close, nuzzled the crown of his pale hair, giving away nothing.

/

Later, to the apartment on the first floor Ginpachi came alone. Urgency made his strides long but tight, his knocks on her front door a hard rap instead of a gentle knock. He heard her move toward the door and open it. When Hinowa took in his face, her smile fell. She beckoned him inside, quietly closing the door with a quick glance around the area.

Ginpachi seated himself, tense, thrumming, his knees wide and his hands gripping his knees tightly. A perfect hostess, Hinowa allowed him his silence while she brewed him a cup of tea and brought it. Finally, she sat next to him and leaned in, her face very serious, her voice very quiet.

_Have you seen a man?_

Fear hardened his bones to stone.

 _Who is he?_ He murmured.

/

When he left Hinowa's apartment, he had more questions than answers.

 _He's close to Tsukuyo_ , Hinowa said, with a frown between her eyes.

 _She called him boss_.

 _Yes_ , she nodded. _She does. They became acquainted, I believe, not long after she arrived in the city_.

So this guy's been around for months? The whole year? Even longer? How had Ginpachi never seen him, never noticed? Heat crawled over his scalp. With terrifying finality, he recalled the scars all over Tsukuyo's body.

_What is his business?_

Hinowa still looked uncomfortable, even fearful. _I can't be sure, but I have my ideas_.

Ginpachi leaned forward. _Please, tell me._

Her blue eyes, normally so earnest and clear, were riddled with doubt. But there was something more, something he'd felt the first time he laid eyes on this man: an unmistakable animal fear. When her lips opened and she spoke, Ginpachi felt the world fall away.

_I think he might be yakuza. The Benigumoto gang._

/

For the next several days, Ginpachi was in a daze. He tripped over his own feet. Slouched even worse than usual, almost horizontal, staring at the classroom ceiling. His teacher shouted and threw the blackboard eraser at him for such disrespect. He could hardly feel the gazes or hear the whispers.

Tsukuyo, on the other hand, seemed to have regained her previous posture. She sat forward and took notes diligently again. He watched her from his glazed eyes, thoughts spinning, heart pounding. Every time he looked at her, he thought he was going to have a heart attack.

Only Zura said something to his face. _What, did she dump you?_

The boy blinked back at him. No, that would have been so much simpler. The clearest option, the one that made the most sense, the one that actually held a shred of self-preservation, was to break up with her, to cut off all ties. That was his only way out. The answering ache in his chest seemed to shake its head.

/

It took a while, but he did eventually adapt. It's amazing what humans can get used to, what humans can think their way around. Maybe this guy has something on her. Maybe her father is involved. Maybe, maybe, just _maybe_ , if they put their heads together they could get her out of this trouble. This ludicrous idea was enough to lift his spirits. A grin, albeit a bit manic, lifted his lips. Once classes were over, they could start strategizing. He could picture them sitting at her coffee table, speaking quietly, exchanging bits of information. Ginpachi dreamt of the trust she could finally put in him, now that he knew her secret, now that he would agree to help her. Maybe that's why she had been so distant lately; she was afraid to tell him.

He felt like a hero from a manga, preparing himself to take down the bad guy for his girl. And what better way to make his intentions known than with his first very real, very serious, date?

Ginpachi chose his time carefully. He wouldn't go about it like the other guys in class, approaching her in front of everyone and flustering her.

He decided to ask one afternoon in her apartment, tangled up in each other's arms. He lifted his head from her collarbone and looked in her eye. Tsukuyo, lying against the pillows, glanced down with a small smile, expecting nothing. Ginpachi reached behind him and fumbled for something in his pocket, then held it out in front of her face. Two tickets to the local theme park.

 _Want to go on a date with me?_ His grin was so wide, he thought he might burst. It would all go according to plan, it had to.

But instead of the deep, familiar blush that he had hoped for, he saw hesitation sprint across her face. She chewed her bottom lip, like she did when she was deciding how much to tell him. The moment was a touch too long. Ginpachi blinked, felt his limbs go cold. Finally, she smiled — it didn't touch her eyes — and nodded.

_Of course._

/

Everything was perfect. The day was warm, but there was a light breeze. He showered and dressed carefully, counted and recounted his loose cash. He bought condoms, breath mints, considered a piece of jewelry in a shop window, before setting off early.

When Tsukuyo arrived that afternoon for lunch at the park, it was better than anything his sneaky glances at shoujo manga could have promised him. Her clothes weren't very interesting, frankly, just a linen shirt and shorts, but her hair was not in its usual bun. Instead, she wore it loose, and it fell around her face and over her shoulders in a way that felt more special than any frilly dress might have. He pawed at his own hair absently.

She seemed to enjoy herself. She laughed in a way that he hadn't heard in a long time, her mouth wide open and her teeth showing. She screamed at the top of her lungs on the roller coasters, both hands in the air, while he shut his eyes and hooted like a startled animal. She accepted his offers of ice pops and snacks with soft thank you's, her eyes shining.

Then, the sun set, dipped lower and lower. They waited in line for the ferris wheel, this was their last stop and a must on any good theme park date — he'd read enough manga to know. After the long day, Tsukuyo retreated a bit into herself, and an easy silence formed around them. He reached for her hand, took it. She squeezed back.

In the carriage, he put his arm around her, propped his feet up on the seat across from them. Ginpachi sighed heartily, feeling confident in his romancing skills.

He blurted the obvious thing: _I had fun today._

And she blurted it right back: _Me too._

He squeezed her shoulder, took a breath. _Classes are ending soon,_ he started. Let it hang in the air. She didn't look up at him, didn't answer either. Ginpachi felt his insides tighten. He pushed on: _I'll...be around. Can_ — _can I see you this summer?_

Then Tsukuyo looked up at him with a glance that was a mystery, and it struck him how incredibly, embarrassingly stupid this whole thing was. Ginpachi, high school student and lazybones extraordinaire, sleeping with the hottest girl in school with no strings attached — finds out that she might be involved with the yakuza, and instead of fleeing for the hills, he gets closer to her, and all but admits, admits — he couldn't even think it to himself. His whole head swelled with heat. Was his life actually a shoujo manga?

Tsukuyo's eyes slid slowly off his face and out the window. _I won't be around, though._

His breath hitched painfully, almost pitching him forward. The thought hadn't crossed his mind, that she might be leaving for the summer. The next couple months yawned before him, dark and bleak.

 _Where_ — _where will you be?_

Now, Tsukuyo turned around and took his face in her hands very seriously. Her eyes looked directly into his, all at once very fierce, powerful in a way she'd never been before; _this_ was the girl involved with the yakuza, _this_ was the girl who brought him to bed. How had he not seen? What a fool, an absolute buffoon.

 _Listen to me carefully,_ she murmured, her lips brushing his as she spoke. _I have business to take care of with my boss, out of town. But I will be back for school._ At the mention of that man, Ginpachi flinched nearly out of her grasp, but she held him fast. _Listen, please,_ she reminded him, her voice a bit more firm. _I know what I'm doing. I wouldn't leave you if it wasn't important._

He clutched at the straws in her words, feeling stupid, pathetic — just look at yourself, man!

_You wouldn't?_

Then a smile, a genuine one that touched her eyes, came into her face. She shook her head slowly. 

_N_ _ever_.

Ginpachi instantly believed her. _Why?_ He breathed.

Her smile grew bigger, and she clicked her tongue. Her hand slid over his cheek, down his neck, and into his hair in a way that nearly made him forget what they were talking about. _I think we get one chance in this life_ , she said, _and for me, it's you._

/

So in the end, she'd been the cool one, not him. She'd been the one to sweep him off his feet, and not the other way around. But as Ginpachi held her in his arms that night, he couldn't find it in himself to mind.

On their last day of school, he gripped her hands hard enough to hurt, his knuckles going white.

 _Just_ , he ground out, forehead knocking against hers, _just don't be a stranger._

/

She's still smoking on his balcony. They're both exhausted, there will no more sex tonight, but still she lingers. He waits, watching, wondering how long she will draw this out. He wants to offer — "You can stay here tonight" — but feels in his gut that if he says the words out loud, the spell will be broken. His apartment will turn back into a pumpkin, and the princess will flee into the night.

So Ginpachi watches, studying the lines of her back, which in the gloom looks smooth and unmarred. The winter holidays are fast approaching; even now her breaths are half smoke, half steam in the cold air. She rubs her arms absently.

After a few moments, Tsukuyo turns toward him and comes to the bed. She slides in next to him and curls up on her side, face carefully composed, eyes watchful. He returns her gaze, waiting for the catch. After a few heartbeats, she closes her eyes meaningfully. Ginpachi still waits for a full five minutes, tensed, prepared for the coldness to settle into her side of the bed. Finally, he slinks back down beside her, pulls her soft, pliant body against his, and the comforter over the both of them. In the morning, she's still there, golden in the dawn.

Then he doesn't see her for a month, as the winter holidays come on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is so long in coming! I got really stumped, and then distracted by work. Hopefully this makes up for it :) and the next chapter won't take so long :)))
> 
> I also edited the previous chapters - nothing major - so that it reads more nicely.

It takes precisely an instant for Ginpachi to spy her classroom light on and cross the hallway to it. He’s livid and shaking.

It’s early, students won’t be strolling the halls for at least an hour, so Tsukuyo is using that time to finish lesson planning and preparing materials. He stalks over to her door and raises his hand to slide it open, but after a beat, he doesn’t. He steps aside, peers in through the window.

She’s standing with her back to him, writing something on the blackboard. She doesn’t notice him: beautiful and careless, exactly the same, after a month of silence — for him, a month of not locking his door, of pacing the floor, of keeping his bedroom clean just in case. A month of staring at the ceiling, recalling her face, her lips, the feel of her lashes against his palm. A month of impossible hard-ons. A month of questions and circles and tearing out his hair in the shower. A month of the dark stranger with the volcano’s voice stalking back into his dreams, teeth gleaming.

And there, on the first day of school, she’s back again, a miracle and a taunt.

Ginpachi steps away. He spends the rest of the day avoiding places where he knows he’ll see her: the teacher’s lounge, the cafeteria, even certain hallways. He succeeds; he doesn’t see Tsukuyo for nearly a week that way and commends himself for his restraint.

It’s Friday that things begin to fray. She surprises him in the hall; he’s so dazed and exhausted that he nearly trips over her. Tsukuyo makes a startled sound, and their eyes meet — and it’s the same moment again, the first time he saw her here, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with her in this very hallway. There’s those eyes, the long, long neck, the delicate ear, the high cheekbones. Her lips open in an o of surprise.

Ginpachi nearly knocks over three more people in his race to get away from her.

It’s in vain. He daydreams of her laugh in the middle of his own lectures; doesn’t listen closely to his students’ answers when he thinks he hears her voice on the other side of the wall. He keeps glancing out the window toward the hallway at every footstep. He can hear the students snicker, can see the sympathetic glances from the girls and from Isao. What does he think he’s doing?

/

Ginpachi’s lying on his couch with a _JUMP_ pressed firmly to his face when there’s a soft knock at the door. It’s Tsukuyo, wearing a carefully composed face. She has a bottle of wine and a strawberry shortcake in hand. He wonders if it’s supposed to be an apology; well, it’s not good enough. He opens the door and steps aside to let her in, eats the whole cake without batting an eyelash, though the wine tastes sour in his throat. She doesn’t touch any of it, but she watches.

After, she picks up the empty plate and rinses it off in his sink. Unspeaking. It’s all too much for his nerves; he’s been waiting all night to hear something, _anything_. Ginpachi stands impulsively. He moves close to her until he can feel the heat of her back. Tsukuyo doesn’t turn around.

“Ginpachi.”

At the sound of her voice, he jerks forward, presses her against the counter, his hips to hers. She makes a small noise of surprise but doesn’t resist. She starts to turn her head to meet his eyes but he reaches out, takes her chin in his hand, and stops her. His other hand grips the sharp jut of her hip. He breathes harshly against her neck, a dragon with fire in his lungs.

She says quietly: “Don’t be that way.”

He flexes his hand against her hip. She sighs, a sound like water, and he growls; how can she be so calm, so accepting? She doesn’t even ask why he’s upset.

“What way should I be?” 

She hesitates, and he pulls her to the living room. Ginpachi bends her over the back of his couch and sets a punishing pace against her body. They don’t bother to undress, he just whips the belt off his trousers and flips up her skirt. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, but it isn’t quite relief. He still feels angry, hurt beyond question, but the way she reaches around and places her hand on his lower back dissipates some of his fear. Ginpachi starts to move, pressing her painfully against the furniture. His forehead drops to the back of her shoulder.

“Where —“ he pushes again, “have you been?”

Tsukuyo’s head falls forward. Her other hand touches the nape of his neck. “It — _ah_ ,” she breathes, “it was important.”

He growls again, “God _damn_ it, Tsukuyo,” but he shudders and comes, too quickly. She pants, and her hand leaves him and starts to move toward her sex; he knocks it furiously away and reaches down himself. With his fingers in her, he asks, “How important?”

She grips his hand and pants, “Please.” Her hips move quickly. “ _Please_.”

“Where,” he repeats.

“Please believe me.”

Ginpachi bursts. “Believe what? You don’t _say_ anything —”

A tear squeezes its way from the corner of her eye, and Ginpachi sees it roll down her cheek. He feels vicious, greedy, like he’s finally winning some game with her after all these years. Finally, finally, he gets a reaction, finally, finally he can get her to talk. He waits, his hand still moving, but slower, gentler, to draw it out. His other arm comes around her waist and holds her tight against his body. Tsukuyo swallows hard, her nails digging into the fabric of the couch. Another tear, then another. He can feel it, she’s so close it hurts and it thrills him, but her lips purse tightly — and he realizes with a start that she’s _still_ not going to talk, she’s not going to say anything at all, no matter how long this goes on — he could go until his hand cramps, until she’s sobbing, until they’re both parched of thirst, but she wouldn’t bend. She’s not going to say please again either.

“ _Woman_ ,” he grunts, exasperated, against her ear.

Ginpachi relents; he always does. He presses his lips to the crook of her neck and she sighs, that same delicious exhale, and finally bends double over his arm.

/

Still, she sleeps over for the second time that night. Though he supposes she had little choice; they rut until dawn, expending a month’s worth of frustration at once. At one point, he whispers against her thighs, “I still haven’t forgiven you,” and he’s not being coy or sexy; but Tsukuyo chuckles anyway and answers, “And this is what I get when you’re angry with me?” She runs a hand through his fringe and taunts him with her eyes. "I should irritate you more often." And it's so infuriating to him that this time he doesn't let her come till she's openly weeping.

/

“Thought I’d find you here.”

“Oh?” Zura slurps noisily, not looking at him down the ramen bar.

Ginpachi just smiles; he feels old but comforted by the sight of this man. He looks the same, still that ridiculous long hair on a grown man, his serious face that hides an idiot’s thoughts. He sits down next to him and says, “Yeah, I figured at least 50/50.” He grins meaningfully. “If not more.”

Zura slides his green eyes toward his friend’s face, expressionless. Ginpachi glances behind the counter at the busty blonde serving up their meals; she’s chatty and tough, very pretty. He’s dimly aware that, even as his own life has continuously circled and re-circled the same old questions for the same old woman, Zura has had his own little drama playing out as well.

Finally Zura coughs, sets down the now empty soba bowl. “Yes, well.”

They talk briefly of old times, old faces. Sakamoto off somewhere, probably dealing in arms or something absurd and maniacal, laughing his head off at no joke whatsoever. He still recites “Invictus” at inappropriate times. Apparently Takasugi has taken it upon himself to become an enemy of the State. No one is surprised.

Finally, he says it. “She…” Ginpachi hesitates, and Zura waits. “She teaches at my school now.”

This bit of news shocks even Zura visibly. His neck twitches like he’s going to do a spit take but thankfully his mouth is empty. “Tsukuyo-dono?”

Ginpachi nods.

Ikumatsu sets a bowl of ramen down in front of him, gives him a big smile, but then darts to the other side of the bar to get something out of the fryer. As Ginpachi begins to eat, Zura finally asks, “Do you think she came to find you?”

Now Ginpachi is the one fighting a spit take. He gulps painfully and slams the bowl none too easily on the bar. “Are you crazy?” He blurts at Zura. “Why would she do that? She’s the one who —” He stops abruptly.

Zura only stares back, immensely calm. Ginpachi falls silent, then turns to his bowl and slurps the rest down.

“Ginpachi,” he calls softly. “I remember what happened, last time —”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ginpachi tries waving Zura’s words away, but the other man frowns even deeper.

“No,” he says firmly. “You don’t understand. We _all_ remember. Me, Shouyo sensei, Sakamoto, even Shinsuke. We stood back and watched.” Ginpachi flinches a bit under his unremitting stare. “We are your closest friends, no matter what you say. And we had to watch you in pain.” Zura’s eyes slide to the floor, his head shaking. “Not again. Not again,” he says quietly.

Ginpachi sighs, passes a hand over his face. “What can you do?”

He seems to consider that question for a moment, his hand cupping his chin. Then Zura says, “What do you need?”

/

After she left, Ginpachi spent that long yellow summer training. He came to Shouyo sensei with his tail between his legs, looking away and steeling himself for punishment. The kendo teacher looked down at his student with soft eyes, his expression a mask. Then he smiled. _Well, it won’t be easy for you to catch up, but we’ll manage._

He set Ginpachi immediately to a merciless number of laps, push ups, and swings. He called in Takasugi to challenge him and Zura to annoy him. The summer churned, golden and steaming, and Ginpachi felt some of the anxiety of the previous weeks burn off in his arms and legs. As the weather changed again, he thought, however fleetingly, that whatever was to come, he was prepared.

In the fall, Ginpachi found her first in a classroom of faces. Tsukuyo again, sitting by the window with her book bag in place, notebook open and ready. There was no small measure of relief when he saw her there, all in one piece and in her usual posture. But when he drew near, something was different — a scar, carved as if by a sculptor’s hand, artfully down her face from forehead nearly to chin. The other students avoided her; Ginpachi couldn’t bear to look away. She kept her eyes away from everyone until the teacher arrived and started class.

During the lunch break, their classmates scattered. No one wanted to get near Tsukuyo, not even her erstwhile admirers. Ginpachi moved toward her desk. She was staring out the window still, just as when he’d arrived that morning.

_So what, were you running with scissors?_

Immediately, she whipped around and grabbed a big fluffy tuft of hair, slamming his face into the desk. _It’s none of your business_ , she growled, red down to her neck and shoulders.

 _I see_ , Ginpachi mumbled against the plastic desktop.

Tsukuyo’s fingers twitched in reaction, and she stood and wrapped her elbow around his throat. She dragged him up to the roof of the building then threw him down, coughing and spluttering. Tsukuyo moved away toward the fence running around the perimeter of the roof. She touched the wire, sighed deeply, and pressed her forehead to it. Ginpachi dragged himself to his feet. A long silence ensued. She looked very small, standing against the city skyline; all the power in her spine crumbled.

 _What happened?_ He ventured.

 _I—_ she started. Still that habit of deciding whether to speak the truth mid-sentence. _I forsook my womanhood_.

Another long silence ensued. Finally, Ginpachi blurted, deadpan: _What._ Then, _Forsook your womanhood? You hardly have any boobs, so there’s nothing to ‘forsook.’_ This last word he punctuated with air quotes.

Before he could get in another word of derision, Ginpachi felt a small white fist connecting to his jaw; once again he sprawled on the ground, holding his face and gasping.

 _You have no idea!_ Tsukuyo cried, holding up her fist. Again, red from head to toe in rage. _You might not know, you might not care, but I have to be strong — and if that, if that means —_ something broke in her voice then, and tears leapt into her eyes.

Ginpachi watched from the ground as they pooled in her lashes and streamed quickly down her cheeks. He still knew absolutely nothing.

/

For weeks she didn’t allow him to accompany her home. She gave him a sharp glare at the school gates and purposefully marched off alone. Ginpachi slunk home each afternoon, too depressed even to wonder what was going on. Zura made passive aggressive remarks about it, but he just threw his heavy _JUMP_ volume over the couch at him and continued to lie about.

Then there came the day when she didn’t glare quite so fiercely at him. How long had it been? He didn’t count the days; they bled one into the other. But in her serious expression, he saw an ounce of forgiveness and it was enough.

Ginpachi walked her home, all the way up into her apartment alone, and there behind the door he silently gathered her in his arms. She didn’t return the embrace, but he didn’t care; he felt skin-starved after not touching her for weeks, an eternity for a teenager. His hands probed her body. He found a couple new scars on her midriff, bruises where he felt her tense. He drew back and took her face between his palms, studying it before he leaned down to kiss her. With an intake of breath, Tsukuyo pushed him away. He thought she was angry again, but her face was surprised.

_What are you doing?_

Ginpachi blinked, in a daze. He knew he must look a lovesick fool. He saw it all work out across her face: her brows drew together, her eyes searching. Her lips quirked up in question.

_You mean… you still want… with me?_

_What?_ He was struck dumb. _What would make you think—?_

Her hand flew up to the scar on her face, an unconscious movement. He wondered, briefly, how many times she’d looked at herself in the mirror since — Ginpachi felt his hands on her hips tighten unconsciously. He shook her a little, trying to keep his voice down.

 _What — what do you even mean? You’re still you, even if, even..._ He looked at her and still thought about fruit, rainy days, autumn leaves; now, he also saw a crescent moon in her face, like he was finally witnessing the part of her she’d hesitated to show. Ginpachi hung his head low, sighing.

 _You’re still you_ , he repeated. _You have a pretty face and a clean soul. Still._ He lifted his head and looked at her, caught her eyes. He tried to smile. _For me, it’s you. Right?_

For an eternity, Tsukuyo just looked at him. She was still working it out. She chewed her bottom lip; he watched, wondering what she was considering revealing. Then she reached out and touched her palm to his cheek, closing her eyes. In return, he gently covered the scar with his own hand. He wondered if it still burned, or ached.

 _I’m so glad I met you_ , she whispered.

 _Let me kiss you_ , he said, and she did, she did, she did.

/

Shoulder to shoulder in her tiny bed, he stared at the ceiling and barely moved his lips to ask. _Are you ever going to tell me?_

Tsukuyo sat up, shrugged on her tee shirt, and lit up a cigarette. _I did it._

Ginpachi carefully did not betray surprise, though he was horrified. What had she used? A kitchen knife?

He reached for her again, but this time she took his hand and set it down on the bed. She took a deep breath. _It was a test. To be strong, I have to be willing to give up anything_ , she said quietly. _Friends, happiness, even beauty,_ she added.

Still, Ginpachi did not react. He turned his head away, stared at the wall. _Who gave you that idea?_ When she didn’t answer right away, he asked, _That man?_

Tsukuyo was quiet for a moment. _Jiraia knows many things about strength._

He blinked; now he had a name. Ginpachi rolled over again, threw his arm over her lap securely, his head in his other hand. _Do you agree?_ He asked. _Do you think that’s what strength is too?_

She regarded him quietly; her hand came out to run through his hair, sending tingles all over his body. _Maybe,_ she answered. _I’m not sure._ She smoothed her thumb over his brow. _But I want the time to figure it out for myself_. She paused. _What do you think?_

Ginpachi was quiet a moment. _Shouyo sensei says that strength is about many things,_ he said finally. _He wants us to work together, me, Zura, Takasugi... but he also wants us to have personal conviction. Something to fight for, some... goal_. To be honest, these words felt much more lofty than what the teenager could really internalize for himself. But it's true that that's what sensei often said. He glanced up; she was looking at him seriously. He flushed a bit, but pushed on. _Maybe it's not so much about what you're willing to give up; maybe it's what you're_ not _willing to give up_.

He glanced up again. Was he more exhausted than he'd thought? Ginpachi thought he saw tears in her eyes, before Tsukuyo leaned down to kiss him again.

/

In the weeks after meeting Zura, Ginpachi feels himself losing control. Her schedule is more erratic now than before the winter holidays; there’s no more regular visits, but the occasional weekend where they don’t leave the bed, or when she jumps him in the doorway of his apartment on a Tuesday afternoon. She sleeps over more often though. She’s a wonder, her body a silver river in the moonlight and an apple orchard in the sun. He pushes himself to the limit for her pleasure, sometimes three times in one morning, then a couple more times in the afternoon and evening. He feels mad but constantly hungry. He wants to gobble up her lips, devour the column of her neck, swallow her toes, and drink from the smooth plane of her belly. He wakes up every morning hard, goes to sleep with his body crying out for rest and water. Tsukuyo laughs in his arms, she cries out against his neck, she speaks sweetly into his ears, but she still feels like sand through his fingers.

He does the unthinkable. Starts pulling her into quiet corners during the school day, presses against her a little too closely in the teacher’s lounge, or shuts the curtain around them in the nurse’s office. He thinks about bending her over his desk, hers, about pushing her to the floor, about covering her mouth with his hand so she doesn’t make too much noise.

The others would be fools not to notice. Teachers raise their eyebrows; students whisper.

“She’s still too good for him,” Kagura sighs, barely looking up.

Sacchan fumes, but can’t deny the signs; she’d been the first one to see them together, thighs in suspicious places.

A blushing Kondo whispers to Toshi, “They must be in love,” but Toshi shakes his head.

“It’s unprofessional, not romantic.”

Sougo rolls his eyes. “What do you know about romance, Mayo-San?”

Kagura huffs. “What do _you_ know, brat?”

“Who are you calling brat, brat?”

/

In the teacher’s lounge, she steps away from him once. “I wonder if it’s becoming a bit...unseemly,” she says.

He reclaims the space. “It is not,” he replies, a snarl in his tone.

“We’re not kids anymore, we need to be careful,” she murmurs, her chin tucked into her neck.

Ginpachi’s hand flashes out, takes hers. Squeezes, hard. “No,” he says, before turning and marching out.

/

Ginpachi takes her comment as a challenge. He finds her while the students are at lunch. He appears in the doorway of her classroom, meets her eyes meaningfully, then darts away down the hall. Several steps behind, he hears the clack of her heels on the tile, and he knows he’s won. He’s known her a long time, he knows her curiosity is the key. He turns a corner almost at random. Students are running, laughing, shouting, knocking each other down on the way to the lunchroom or to the lawn, not heeding the wan and dull sensei. Tsukuyo turns the corner after him, cautiously, and he grabs her around the waist, pulling her into a janitor’s closet.

He pushes her against the wall inside. They are both quiet for a moment, waiting, listening hard to the sounds on the other side of the door to see if anyone noticed them. Nothing. Then Ginpachi reaches out and clicks the lock on the door. He waits again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demands quietly.

Ginpachi grins at the dark note in her voice. He now pulls her up into his arms, squaring his hips against hers against the wall. He makes short work of her trousers. She is warm and soft against him, making a small sound in the back of her throat.

“Not too loud now,” he teases her ear, “the students will talk, _Tsukki_.” She glares but doesn’t speak.

He laughs as he enters her in a swift motion. She inhales sharply, punches him in the arm; she shoves the fingers of her other hand between her teeth to keep herself quiet. He pries her fist from her mouth, then licks the blood she’s drawn on herself. In the dark, he is even more aware of each movement she makes, her sounds, the press of her thighs around his hips. Tsukuyo bites her lip now, eyes closed. He thinks he sees tears in her eyelashes, and Ginpachi leans forward to brush them away.

“Hey now, no need for that,” he murmurs. She still doesn’t make a sound, but her hips grind against his, hard. He teases, “Remember when we used to sneak in here? You used to push _me_ up against the wall. Best part of my day.”

He pulls her close, wraps her arms around his shoulders. They fall limply around him, but when he continues to rut her up against the wall, he feels her grip tighten, the bite of her nails on his scalp. Tsukuyo starts to whimper as he picks up the pace, thrusting hard into her. He kisses that familiar spot behind her ear — she still shivers when he does that — then moves a hand down to her hip to hold her in place.

Her lips open a little more, her whimpers begin to turn into moans. Before she can stop him, he kisses her full on the mouth. Ginpachi can feel the ice-hot shock run through her; he’s trespassed, trampled on her rule, but they’re also fucking in a janitor’s closet at school, and he feels reckless. He moves his hand from her hip down between her legs. At his touch, she breaks off from his kiss and cries out softly into his ear. He lets her slide slowly off of him, her chin tucked into her chest.

“See? The sky didn’t fall,” he says flippantly.

She begins to straighten her clothes. He sees her jaw set, and she snaps her head up to him, a flash in her eyes. She’s spitting angry, he can feel it in the air. A grin pulls at his lips, unbidden.

“That was unnecessary,” she growls.

“Careful,” he says, “I like it when you’re angry.”

She presses her lips together tightly. Tsukuyo finishes fixing her clothes and zips her jacket partway, still that same frown on her brow. She flings the door open into the now quiet hallway and stalks away.

Ginpachi makes a mental note: this is a good location for lunchtime.

/

He meets Zura for another bowl not long after. The other man slurps noisily, making the sexy ramen chef laugh heartily. Ginpachi envies him for a brief moment, watching his old friend make easy rapport with a woman. He buries his feelings in food.

Then Zura drops the bowl onto the counter nonchalantly and pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket, slides it over to him. Ginpachi glances down, but doesn’t stop slurping. It’s a few numbers and phrases, an address.

“You wanted to know where she went over the winter?”


End file.
